


In Ashes of Burnt Manuscripts

by beng



Series: Mirrors and Manuscripts [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Feels, Ball of Twine, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Smut, The Author Regrets Nothing, after the Final Battle, leaving kirkwall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27045355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beng/pseuds/beng
Summary: After the fight with Meredith, Hawke & Co. are given an hour to gather their things and then they must leave Kirkwall.Merrill and Varric are re-evaluating what is worth taking and what must be left behind.
Relationships: Merrill/Varric Tethras
Series: Mirrors and Manuscripts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2009392
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16





	In Ashes of Burnt Manuscripts

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written DA2 stuff for ages, but then [this art by poupon](https://64.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ljvhoylUpu1qc17yfo1_1280.jpg) crossed my dash, reminding me of all the sad Merrill/Varric headcanons I have, and then I got talking with [Hollyand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyand/pseuds/hollyand) about some fandom drama making rounds, and basically even the _theoretical_ idea that some random stranger on the internet would have the gall to tell me what smut I should or should not write was enough fuel to get this done. Enjoy ^^
> 
> (Or hit BACK, it's a free country.)

Daisy says the passage has been there since at least the Storm Age, and Varric has never much doubted her word, even when he isn't worried out of his mind, and so pissed he'd love to wring that curly ponce's neck. The boy has nerve, kicking them, kicking the sodding Champion of Kirkwall out of the city in wake of that bloody farce at the Gallows. 'An hour to gather your things and say your goodbyes,' ha! 

Varric feels sick, untethered, and the stagnant, damp air of the underground tunnel he walks with Daisy is not helping.

Bitter anger is what keeps him going.

His whole life is in shambles. His drafts, his contracts, his investments. He's volunteered to accompany Daisy, before meeting with the others at Hawke's estate, but frankly he's not sure which one of them is in greater danger from the sodding templars right now — the elven blood mage or the well-known dwarven business associate of Hawke's. One good thing is they know each other's moves like the back of their hands, and even without Fenris or Aveline they can handle close combat too, if needed.

They make their way into the Alienage, having bypassed the lowered portcullis guarded by four of Aveline's men. The elves are frightened from being locked up so suddenly, they are clamouring to get out, where enraged zealots are busy looking for someone to blame, and it is better if the gate stays shut.

Merrill slips effortlessly through the restless crowd, while Varric just pushes through, elves jumping out of the way of his broad shoulders, blood-spattered coat and the heavy crossbow he carries.

"We don't have much time," he grumbles, shutting the door of her little house. He leans against it and pretends his hands aren't shaking as he suddenly thinks of his own, much larger rooms at the Hanged Man, of everything contained therein and binding him to Kirkwall, and how is he even going to sort it all at a drop of a hat like this?

Daisy sends him a tight smile, and Varric swears under his breath. Of course she doesn't need a reminder. She knows the drill, she has lost her home before.

Varric hasn't.

Clothes. Camping gear. Foodstuffs that would keep on the road. Daisy packs quickly, even if he sees her pick up more than one clay mug or well-read book, small hands caressing them and then putting them down with a sigh and a light frown on her inked brow. Finally her glance stops on the damn mirror she has kept covered ever since that fiasco in the mountains. With a clench of her dainty jaw, she pulls down the cloth, and they both stare at the Eluvian.

She can't take it with her. She can't leave it either, lest someone stumbles upon it and gets hurt somehow. 

She must know that.

Varric clears his throat. "With all that research you did, you could probably make a new one on the spot."

The Dalish stares at him, and he knows the idea is undermining her, unmaking her in maybe the same way that thinking of leaving Kirkwall is unravelling him.

She nods slowly and steps aside. Varric nocks a hard-tipped bolt and draws the string a few notches tighter than normal. When he releases the trigger, the mirror explodes in a hail of shards, he instinctively backs into a wall, Merrill throwing up one of those shimmering shields of hers, and then she's leaning against the wall, covering him, her eyes squeezed shut and her chainmail-clad breasts heaving right in Varric's face.

She's a few steps from grief, and just this side of panic. He knows how much that blasted mirror meant to her. 

He hugs her slim figure and holds her close, holds her together until the storm subsides.

"My ball of twine," the elf whispers, dazed, when her eyes finally focus on something lying on the floor amid the shards. "It must have fallen from the shelf."

"You won't need it, Daisy." Varric has no idea why he's whispering too. Perhaps it's her small hands leaning on his shoulders, his own still heavy on her slender hips.

'You won't need it, you will have me,' he wants to say, but he's lost his words to the turmoil outside.

She stumbles away from his embrace and picks up the old, faded thing he gave to her all those years ago. There's a glimpse of something deep in her chrysolite eyes when she looks back at him, as staggering as a grenade, and it's not that he ever considered her too childish or immature, unlike _some_ , but...

He never expected to see that longing look on Daisy's face when aimed at him.

And now he's just standing there like an idiot watching her blood-red little talons clutching the ball. Her large green eyes are wandering around the room, lost without their mirror image. Thin lips are pressed in a line.

Fucking templars. Fucking Blondie and fucking Meredith, and this whole fucking nonsense.

"Let's go, Daisy," Varric murmurs and hands the elf her pack. She takes a few deep breaths, presses the backs of her palms against her pale, rose-tinted cheeks, and then she sends him another small smile, stuffs the ball of twine in her pack and steps out of the house. Before closing the door, Varric grabs a few sachets of teas and a carved halla figurine she sighed particularly sad about and stuffs them in his coat pockets. He'll be happy to carry bits of her life for her.

They leave the Alienage through the same tunnel, and when they resurface in Lowtown, Andraste's sweet tits, if there's not even more chaos in the streets now, all the gangs seemingly decided to try their luck looting and pillaging, civilians trying to barricade their doors and windows. Not a few groups of templars are roaming the streets looking for anyone even vaguely resembling an apostate and evidently ignoring that Rutherford boy and his command to stay at the Gallows and let the City Guard sort out the pandemonium.

They find the Hanged Man barricaded, and it's a good thing Varric has the key from a back door that's not blocked yet. Inside they're met by havoc, Norah shouting at some drunk patrons and Corff standing guard at the entrance to the wine cellar, cursing at anyone stumbling closer and brandishing a long dagger that Varric suspects must have been left behind by Rivaini at some point or another. A one-eyed elf Varric has never seen before and the strange woman that only ever presents herself as Friend are busy lining up on the floor some would-be robbers, all knocked out or gravely wounded.

"You'll want to check your rooms," Friend tells him with an unsettling grin and then nods towards a burlap sack the elf kicks under a table as he passes, dragging another body. "See if any of that is yours."

Varric curses and bolts upstairs as quickly as his short legs would carry him, Daisy following close behind.

His door is hanging open, the heavy lock broken with unthinking force.

But at least it's still in its hinges, and when he finally pushes the heavy door closed, sliding the bolt home and shutting out the sounds from downstairs, his shoulders are shaking and he admits he's afraid to see the state of his rooms.

"It's not so bad, Varric," comes Daisy's cautious voice behind him. "It's a mess, but I don't think they knew to take anything apart from your money." She pauses, and when Varric dares to turn around, he sees her crouching on the floor, gathering the spilled pages of his latest draft of the "Hard in Hightown" sequel. Her pack is on the floor too, the ball of twine escaped and the faded yarn getting tangled with his papers.

"Foolish of them, really," she says and looks up at him, smiling.

His desk is overturned, ink spilled, drawers broken and upended, his chair thrown against a wall. There are papers on the floor everywhere: his letters, his tax notices, minutes of the Guild meetings, random notes and a few death threats, his maps and his drafts, and his forged bills of lading. It is his whole life. How is he supposed to fit even the most important parts of it in the leather satchel he used for travel?

"Shouldn't you start packing, Varric?"

Varric carefully puts down his crossbow.

"There is no way I can bring even a small part of all this with me, Daisy."

"But aren't all the stories in your head, Varric?" She stands up with a sheaf of papers in her hands, so small and resolute amid the overturned furniture of his room. "Paper is so fragile, the Dalish never use it. I'm sure you know all your stories by heart anyway. You don't even have to wait for an Arlathvenn to discover new ones."

She's not wrong, although it's hard to think of starting over from scratch. But it's still better than ending up with his drafts stolen in some seedy roadside tavern or rotting with his dead body in some ditch. Varric blinks slowly, then drops to his knees, and together they have soon gathered the majority of his papers. 

In a haze, Varric throws them into the cold fireplace and when he nods, Daisy helpfully sets them on fire.

Everything that has happened, from the whole sad fucking tragedy that was Blondie, to Meredith and the red lyrium idol, to watching his manuscripts go up in flames, hits him like a stonefist spell in the chest. The image of Daisy, kneeling by his side before the grate and smiling at him so bravely suddenly feels the one thread his world is still hanging on.

He shuffles closer and wraps his arms around her, just holding her tight and trying to make it sink in that at the end of this long day, she's safe, that she's free and unscathed and alive. He feels her small hands on his back, returning his embrace as fiercely as she can. He runs his thick fingers through her short, silky hair, and then his lips are on hers, tasting the salt of her dried tears and the shattered image of another lifetime that must have contained herbal tea.

She freezes. For a moment Varric thinks he's misread that look in her house before, but then her lips part and it's his turn to swallow a groan when her painted nails skitter across his jaw and gently cradle the back of his head, her lips soft and pliant against his hot, desperate kisses. Then she leans back, and his heart is in his throat when she blinks at him owlishy, once, twice, and then starts to blush and fidget, lips looking for excuses that probably lay shattered with the glass on her floor. Dull shouting of the crowd reaches them through the closed shutters from the street outside, and it's getting dark, it's getting late, and impossible to leave things between them like they have been until now. 

'Daisy,' Varric wants to tell her when she starts to move away, but grief lodges in his throat and he's reduced to his hands, brushing them lightly up her sides and begging her to understand. Merill startles and then stills. A lone tear slips down her pale cheek, and then she leans forward and kisses Varric more gently than he's ever been kissed before. 

He lets her. He lets her steal his fool heart like that, because, Maker's breath, hasn't it been hers for a while now? 

She lifts her hand to cup his jaw and there's unravelled yarn tangled in her thin fingers, a memory of a promise chafing against his skin, a promise of protection and friendship. And now... a small whimper escapes her soft lips, she trembles when his heavy hands run down her spine, and Varric doesn't think there's a syllable of friendship left in him for the girl but there must be entire libraries of something more.

He catches her hand in his and wraps the twine loosely around their joined hands, and somehow Daisy _gets it_ , because her breath hitches and her eyes grow even wider in the gathering dusk. She must understand what he means, because she lives on stories too. 

'You will have me,' it says.

The fire has burnt out quickly, thin flakes of ash still hovering in the air. Daisy searches his face, thin brows drawn into a frown, and Varric can imagine the thousand questions flitting through her mind, wondering if she's missing something or if he is being serious. Varric clenches his teeth. People have made good-natured fun of her long enough. Yeah, it's probably not the right time, and there is the age difference, and Rivaini will carve out his guts if he hurts her, but she's a grown woman with her own mind, and a bloody brilliant one as far as he's concerned.

Varric gets up and steps towards his bedroom, his eyes on hers and the twine pulling taut between them. 

He knows his timing is ridiculous, but that's what he thought during all the other times as well.

Either way, he wants it to be her decision.

Daisy stands up slowly, biting the corner of her lips. Then, with a small jut of her chin, she picks up the ball of yarn and starts rolling it up, a tremulous smile growing with every step she makes towards Varric.

And he can only watch in stunned silence as, for once in his life, a girl's choice is _him_. 

There is a scent of burnt manuscripts in her hair when she drops the ball of twine on the bed, sits across his lap and kisses him, his messy bedcovers barely dipping from how little she weighs. Even so he suspects half of it is her chainmail, and so he unwraps her scarf, eliciting a small whimper from her when his thumbs graze her pointy ears. Her belt with the heavy buckle is the next to go, falling to the floor with a dull clang. He runs his hands up her sides, pushing her green tabard and her armour over her head, leaving her in a dove grey camisole and soft leather leggings.

Daisy is breathing hard, cheeks flushed and her large eyes shadowed under long lashes, and Varric wonders how he never knew how breath-taking she is up close. Her small hands push off the heavy coat from his shoulders, and then she's trailing timid kisses down the side of his neck. Sharp, blood-red nails are pawing at his chest, and he feels her suppress a gleeful chuckle when her hand gets caught in his chest hair. No, that won't do, the whole city is in an uproar, his words are ash, her mirror is in pieces, and there's not going to be any more suppression of anything.

He pushes her away slightly and cocks an eyebrow. "Now what was that, Daisy?"

"I just always wanted to touch it," she admits with a sheepish grin and then bites her lip.

"Never stop," he mutters, words catching in his throat. "Never stop being you, Daisy."

Varric crushes her to him, chasing her lips, his demanding tongue in her mouth, and Daisy _melts_ in his arms, rocking her slim hips against the hardness in his pants; stilling for a surprised moment, and then grinding against him, hard. His hands are running up and down her thighs, rucking up her grey linen shirt. Daisy gasps and shivers when his roughened hands travel up the soft skin of her sides, and he's never known for certain, but despite her shyness he doesn't think he is her first. Her first dwarf maybe. He'll need to keep that in mind.

Daisy's pulling at his shirt, tugging it over his head and flinging it to the floor. She stills again, drinking in his broad shoulders and the few miscellaneous scars, and then pushes him to lie down. She tugs off her own camisole and takes Varric's heavy hand, leaning forward and guiding it to the tucked-in ends of her breastband, and the open, vulnerable look in her eyes steals Varric's breath away. He tugs lightly on the simple cloth, unties the half-knot, unwraps her slowly like the precious gift that she is, fingers skimming her ribs gently. He lets the cloth fall, and then Daisy leans forward again, her heart beating a frantic rhythm against his palms as he cups her breasts, heavy for her slight frame, and so soft and bloody beautiful _;_ the most beautiful tits he's ever seen.

"Varric, stop teasing," she whimpers as he kneads her breasts, calloused thumbs flicking over her hardened nipples. Her head is thrown back and sharp nails trace patterns against the thick muscles of his stomach, reminding him that for all her occasional silliness, this girl is a force of nature. Varric cups his hands around her ass and bucks his hips, pushing her against his hardness.

"Who's teasing, Daisy?" he chokes out, and then she moves away from him in a flurry, tugging off her own leggings and panties, while Varric's own fingers are left fighting clumsily with his belt buckle. He tears off his pants and his muddy boots and notices how Daisy's eyes widen at the sight of him before he pushes her into his nest of sheets and pillows, kissing her hard, swallowing her delicious moans and enjoying her little talons pressing hard against his back, running down his muscled arms. On the backdrop of this whole destruction, his Daisy is here, and unscathed and alive, and he'll be damned if he didn't make sure to keep her that way whatever comes.

She's taller than him, and his heavy cock is pressing against her thin belly as he trails open-mouthed kisses down her pale throat, down her chest. His hand slips between her legs, finding her slick with want even before he's taken one of her stiff nipples in his hot mouth, causing her to arch against him and make the most endearing little mewling sounds. She buckles and exclaims when his thumb finds her clit, and for a second he seriously wonders what kind of oafs she's had in her bed before.

She tugs on his hair and pulls him up for a kiss, her cheeks tinged with pink, her eyes dark with desire. 

"You sure?" Varric mutters when she wraps her slender legs around his waist, even if he's not sure himself what he'd do with a rejection. He'd need a broom to sweep up the broken shards of his heart. But she nods, her face pale against her dark hair and mussed braids fanned over his pillow, and Varric impulsively leans down to kiss her brow, surprised at the hitched breath and the shiver that runs through her at the gesture.

He has an idea of what to expect, and perhaps he's a bit selfish for not preparing her more, but it feels so right when he simply wraps his arms around her and enters her slowly, pushing his thick dwarven cock inside her with gentle, rocking motions, stretching her inch by divine fucking inch, until she's keening, her slender back arched, hands clutching at the sheets and their discarded clothing. She looks incandescent. She looks like the end of him. From the corner of his eye, Varric sees the ball of yarn drop off the bed and roll under his wardrobe. 

"So... full," she whimpers, and then sinks her nails in Varric's shoulders, demanding more.

So he draws almost out and then slams his cock in to the hilt, and she screams, and Varric needs to clench his jaw to retain some semblance of control against the pleasure that threatens to overwhelm him.

"More, Varric," she stutters.

"How... much more, Daisy?"

"Ev... everything."

Varric swears. He sits back on his heels, pulls her in his lap and starts pounding into her in earnest, losing himself in the sensation of her tight, hot cunt and the nails digging into his forearms, the breathless moans of lust and need tearing from her reddened lips. He fucks her hard, and she takes his cock so well nobody would believe him even if he were inclined to tell. He fucks her so hard she will probably have bruises on her hips tomorrow, so hard she will be glad they're taking Isabela's ship, and not travelling on foot or horseback.

He will give her everything. Amidst ashes of his burnt manuscripts, he doesn't have much to give, but what little there is left is as good as hers already. 

He catches her darkened gaze and brushes his thumb against her clit, he's so hard it's painful, it's too much, and he knows he's moments from losing it.

Daisy tenses as a bowstring, and then she breaks, a strangled moan torn from her chest, back arched and arms thrown over her head, wild sparks from her fingertips making vines grow from his wooden headboard. Varric swears under his breath and keeps thrusting into her, pushing her to ride out her pleasure, unable to look away from her as she writhes beneath him, flushed and wild, hands wandering down her chest and squeezing her nipples, wrapping around Varric's wrists and then capturing his gaze just as his own control snaps.

He drives into her mindlessly, filling her completely, tearing another deep moan from her as she sinks her nails in his shoulders and spreads her legs even wider. A jolt of fire runs through him, his thrusts growing erratic, and he means to pull out, he really does, when Daisy comes a second time, her walls tightening and pushing him over the edge. Varric wraps his arms around her and presses his face to her chest, shuddering as he finishes inside her, wrecked with the tremors of his pleasure, mindless, thrown onto some reality where only primal considerations matter, like SHE and HIS.

They're both breathing hard, or would be if Varric wasn't crushing her. Shaking, he rolls off her and then pulls her close, hugging her slim form and relishing the feel of her skin against his. 

Slowly, however, a more pragmatic reality starts to seep in, the darkening evening, the muffled sounds from the street.

"I, er." The words feel heavy in Varric's throat. "I didn't mean to... Sorry. I can, uh, go ask Norah the right potions. I know she always keeps some on hand."

Still dazed, the elf shakes her head. "It's alright Varric." When he looks at her questioningly, she shrugs. "Blood magic does not make conception easy. I'll take my chances."

When he still looks at her, she sighs into the crook of his neck, her blood-red little talons tapping his chest in a fit of nerves.

"It's not the right time of the month for me anyway," she murmurs.

And it feels — intimate. A kind of thing that Varric suddenly wants to be aware of. He gazes down at the top of her tousled head pressed to his shoulder and presses a kiss into her hair. When he raises his hand to pull a blanket over them, he sees it tangled in Daisy's twine, and he chuckles. 

" _We'll_ take our chances, right?"

"What do you...oh!" Daisy looks up at him, emotions swimming in her deep green eyes. She lifts her hand from his chest and laughs a little when Varric laces his thick fingers with hers and loosely binds the twine around their joined hands. He finds he likes the feeling of her chuckling in his arms.

A few minutes more and they'd leave. A few minutes more amidst the ashes of his burnt manuscripts, and they'd go meet up with Hawke and the others.

And a new story would begin.

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, Merrill took that first draft for "Hard in Hightown 2: Siege Harder" and stuffed it in her pack while Varric was busy being dramatic. If Varric can carry her things, she can carry his.


End file.
